


Fig Seeds in our Fists

by Tictacat



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, But it’s not too graphic, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depictions of injury, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, In this case lol, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, No beta we die like Patroclus, Nobody Dies, Or not, Patroclus and Achilles both live, Patroclus is a sweet heart, achilles is as well but he has mummy issues, apart from a lot of Trojans, but Homer was wrong, im sorry boys, liberal interpretation of Greek mythology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28192896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tictacat/pseuds/Tictacat
Summary: Thetis knows her son has the power to burn the world. And without the gentle hands of Patroclus, he can finally ignite into what he was always meant to be.And yet, as she watches her son’s life collapse before her eyes, she realises what the prophecy really meant.It is not the death of Hector that kills Achilles, it is the death of Patroclus.Or, Thetis puts aside her hatred of Patroclus for a second to stop him from dying. Patrochilles get the happy ending they deserve.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles), Briseis & Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 322





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Did anyone else finish the Song of Achilles in under a day, and low-key wish Patroclus hadn’t died? Me too. But not to worry boys, because Homer was wrong and below is what actually happened.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mentions of suicide and brief description of injury.

Thetis watched the body of Patroclus be carried from the field and let pleasure roll within her. Finally, that mortal, that child, would no longer keep back her son. The fates had already decreed the future of Achilles. Hector’s death would be the end of him. Yet, without the boy, Thetis knew her son would finally glow, with such a power, as the fates said, only Zeus himself would be able to hold him back. Patroclus had been starving her son of oxygen, and without him, Achilles would burn. Thetis saw blood dripping from the body, and purred at the sight of the Greeks, fools, weeping as they wrapped it in a shroud, a tattered Grecian flag.

Even from here, she could see the silhouette of her son standing on the cliffs by his camp. Perhaps he had seen the commotion and was wondering what was going on. Light reflected off his golden hair, casting his face in shadow. That face which should belong to a god, not a mere mortal sweating amongst human folly. Perhaps by tomorrow she could convince him to leave this place and stand amongst his kin in Olympus. It was only Patroclus, after all, which had tethered him to Earth. Thetis wasn’t a fool, she knew only a great act could change the direction of fate. And such an act may be beyond even the might of Zeus to control. But she was prepared to try. For her terrifying, beautiful, ugly mongrel of a son. A son who should be worshipped like a god.

She strode alongside the Greeks as they rode away from the battle, their mortal horses no match for her. She passed as invisible as the wind and just as powerful. No Trojans stood in their way. She would let Achilles see the broken body of his pet and then cut that last thread forever.

And yet,

Thetis may have been a minor deity but she had watched the tides pull in more times than every human on this beach had taken in a breath. Before she matured, she had seen the rise of great men, kings and kingdoms. In her early days she had watched them fall and be forgotten until even the greatest and richest among them were merely flecks of dust in the rolling passage of time. And thus, she had witnessed, and laughed at, the fleeting nature of love. The pain mortals felt was nothing to her, just as the seed of a fig could be crushed in the mouth of a child. Brief, momentary, forgotten in seconds.

Yet even she stood back, clawed hand half lifted to her chest as Achilles saw the body of his love, and screamed. She knew the moment he recognised one of the dark curls of Patroclus’s hair tumble from the shroud, a slender ankle (of course, so familiar to him, he knew it better than his own) sag around the arms of Menelaus. Within a heartbeat, he was on the Greeks, golden arms tearing away the body of his human pet, his beloved, to him and holding Patroclus with such a scream of pain, even the ground shook under his grief.

Was this the fire the fates had promised her?

Odysseus, Athena’s favourite, stepped forward offering drink, food, rest, and Achilles’ head snapped up with a crack like thunder. He curled one hand around the back of Patroclus’ head, gripping the dark curls and pressed him impossibly closer to his chest, face twisting in a snarl. And then he crouched lower around his beloved and screamed again with ragged, panting breaths.

Thetis hung back as the Greeks hovered, pain passing unveiled across their faces. Patroclus had been loved by all, though none more than Achilles, and was held dearly in their hearts. Thetis alone had hated the boy. For how he clung to her son, and with warm hands, softened him, like wax. With those hands, now cold and limp which Achilles pressed tremblingly to his face, had moulded her son into a man who could never be a god.

“Who did this?” The whisper was barely human, so tangled in rage, and Menelaus took a nervous step back. The other Greeks watched on silently. It was the war for the love of Menelaus that had taken the love of Achilles.

“Hector, Prince Achilles.”

“Hector?” Thetis’s cold heart stopped as gold snapped through Achilles’ eyes. And then his head dropped so his lips grazed the ear of Patroclus, “what has Hector ever done to me?”. The murmur fell only just above the wind, meant for Patroclus alone. His hands tightened around the body.

And Thetis could see the fire now, racing through his veins, and turning his heart to cinders. And what joy should she feel? This was what a god was. This was what her son should have been. Without the soft parenting of Peleus, without the warmth of Patroclus.

But the fire only burnt to destroy one man.

The man who the fates decreed would spark the end of Achilles, like the summer sun that summoned an avalanche. And suddenly, Thetis understood. 

It was not the death of Hector that ended her son. It was that of Patroclus.

And then she was moving forward.

Passing through the bodies of the Greeks and shrouding herself in invisibility, she reached Achilles before the next ragged sob had torn from his throat, and slipped cold hands onto the broken chest of Patroclus, where his spirit still, splintered, clung. Fragile as the skull of a bird, she cupped it. After a heart wrenching second of pain, she felt it pulse.

“Don’t you dare leave,” she hissed, and gripped tighter, “Achilles calls you.”

If Patroclus could hear her, his spirit made no response, only pulsed weaker with the warmth of a dying sun. Thetis drew a deep breath into the cold cavern of her lungs and called upon her sisters.

Please, one last favour.

The world around Achilles was cold. A field of ice that he would melt into a sea of despair with his rage. No man would stand in his way until Hector was dead. And then Achilles would drag his spirit into the deepest pits of the Underworld and shackle him within a pit of fire so he could feel just a fraction of the pain that burnt through Achilles’ soul. 

Patroclus, Patroclus. It was only this thought, this promise that kept him from drawing the sword swinging from the hovering form of a nearby soldier and taking his life to be with Patroclus.

“My love,” he whispered, gasping with each shuddering breath into the ear of the other part of his soul, his dearest companion, “don’t go, don’t go where I can’t follow.”

Like the fleeting thoughts on the edge of a nightmare, he heard the voices of the others, worthless monsters, dirt, calling to him. Oh how he had loved this war. How easy killing had come to him, just as everything in life had. Only now, had he met a barrier even he could not cross. Not now, later.

Soon, my love.

He bent his head, the gold of his hair casting a curtain around their faces, and his eyes traced the soft features of Patroclus, unhardened by the years of war. Eyes that should never have seen death, the soft sloping nose which should never have smelt blood, and the mouth which should only have smiled. Not be creased in the pain of his final moments.

His arms tightened and he brought him closer, to kiss those lips one more time.

And felt a breath.

Breath like the last gasp of a spring breeze. Warm, sweet, and there.

“Patroclus?” The name tripped out of his lips with a sound left ragged from breathlessness. He drew his chest to his ear, snarling for silence at the Greeks who had clamoured forward at his cry. 

His world narrowed to the single point where Patroclus’ heart should beat. Where it had pumped steadily for all the years they had grown together. Where he had lain his own head to rest for countless nights during this fucking war. And before. When they lay on Pelion together, watching the stars.

And for five, agonising seconds, where his own heart seemed frozen in his chest, he heard nothing, as if he was holding nought but a lifeless stone against his ear.

And then-

He drew back with a gasp and rose in one fluid motion, gathering Patroclus into his arms.

“Where’s Machaon?” 

The others stared at him, some in confusion, others drawn simply in pity. Odysseus stepped forward, hands outstretched.

“Achilles, Patroclus is-”

If Achilles’ arms weren’t filled with something far more precious, he could have killed the man.

“Get him!” The order had even Menelaus scuttling away, calling to his men to hunt down the physician.

Achilles turned and walked as quickly as possible to their tent. He had failed Patroclus too many times to count. But this time, please, please let him save the man he could never hope to deserve.

Patroclus awoke to the softness of rosy fingered dawn trailing her fingers across the thin skin of his eyelids. Warmth encircled him and held him in the gentle grasp of a bed. Their bed.

His eyes, which had drowsily slipped shut, snapped wide open. Achilles. He drew in a breath, eyes shifting, trying to find his love. His last memories raced through his mind. Crashing onto the hard packed earth of the battle field. Apollo, smiling mockingly. A circle of men, encroaching on him, impassable as fate. And Hector- Hector striding forward, his eyes mere shadows under the crest of that shining helmet. His spear glinting in the light of Patroclus’ last day alive.

His last thoughts followed soon after. How Achilles would hunt Hector down for killing him. How he knew Achilles would welcome in his own doom to avenge his death.

“Achilles.” He rasped, trying to move his hands. But they remained leaden, heavy on his chest, as his own body responded to his commands.

Had he died? Was he condemned to remain tied to his physical body forever? It was something he could imagine Thetis imposing.

And then, behind his head, he heard a rustle of the tent flap being brushed aside. He drew in a ragged breath.

The movement stilled.

“Patroclus?”

Before he could even struggle to draw in his next breath and answer the call of his beloved, Achilles was at his side, hands hovering above his body as if afraid the slightest movement could break him.

“Oh Patroclus, my sweet Patroclus. Oh-” his golden face crumpled, and Patroclus felt something wet and warm strike his forehead as tears pooled in Achilles’ green eyes. Eyes strained red with pain. And relief.

“Hold me.” The words came out before Patroclus could catch them. He needed something, he needed Achilles to ground him to life, to prove he was really still alive.

And Achilles only let out a strangled sob before his hands were gripping his own, so tightly Patroclus wondered if they could ever be torn apart. Not that he would mind.

He smiled at Achilles, and for a moment their hearts beat as one in the warm afternoon of their tent.

And then Patroclus grimaced, pain lacing across his chest.

“Don’t move.”

“I want to see.”

Achilles paused, his eyebrows drawing together in that way they did when he was torn between his heart and his mind. Patroclus’ hands still didn’t respond to him, too weak to smooth the crease between his brows, but he met Achilles’ eyes and did his best to soften the unease thrumming through his veins.

A heartbeat later and Achilles nodded, stirring to carefully move Patroclus’ hands from the top of the blanket before laying them gently at his sides. He placed a large, warm hand at the back of Patroclus’ head, lifting it ever so slightly to look down at his body. With the other, he folded back the blanket.

The worst of the wound was covered with bandages. Huge swathes of rusted white cloth which laced back and forth across his chest and folded around his back. Patroclus vividly remembered a spear piercing through his back and out through the skin of his stomach. He remembered the pain as it ripped through muscle, organs, bone. He shouldn’t be alive. No mortal could fix a wound like that.

“What did Machaon say?” He somehow managed to mumble the words around the lump in his throat. They came out thick and jumbled.

Achilles gently laid his head back down and corrected the blanket before speaking. 

“You will need to rest. He said you have the next few weeks off from helping in the medical tent.” He laughed wetly. Patroclus frowned. He was hiding something. The tips of Patroclus’ fingers flickered, straining to move and hold him. Achilles’ eyes flicked to the movement and he quickly enclosed them in his own hands.

“What else?”

Achilles’ fingers tightened. “Nothing of importance, nothing we know for certain, anyway.”

“Achilles.” Patroclus’ heart thumped weakly against his rib cage. Even that, it seemed, hardly had the energy to move.

Achilles looked away, long hair falling to cover his face and Patroclus bit back the urge to push it back. Like he always had in the past. How he would comb his fingers through Achilles’ hair and tie it up for him before a battle, smoothing it carefully so as to fit under the great weight of his horsehair helmet. His fingers twitched in Achilles’ grasp.

“You may, struggle, to walk.” Achilles bit out the last word on the end of a breath.

“I’m paralysed?”

“Not for certain!” Achilles drew closer, his head hovering just above Patroclus, eyes wide in desperation, “Machaon said we can only wait and see. And you’ve always been strong.”

No Achilles, you have always been the strong one.

“Would it matter if I were?”

Confusion passed across Achilles’ face like a flash of the moon on a bubbling stream. And then he bent closer, hair falling around their faces so the world was barred from the two of them. In the faint light of their golden room, Achilles gently lowered his face to kiss Patroclus. It was the chastest of kisses. So soft and tender that a blush quickly bloomed across Patroclus’ cheeks. His eyes fluttered open to meet Achilles watching him with so much love, such an aching adoration, he wished he could hide under the blanket. Or stay here forever, trapped in that gaze.

“My sweet, I would love you through the depths of war, ruin and pain. When you- when I thought you had died... I was ready to follow you to the depths of the Underworld.” His words choked up half way through and he brought their hands up, still tangled together, to gently brush his lips over their fingers.

“Do not leave me again. I thought my world had ended. And I would have taken everything with me to avenge you.”

Patroclus’ heart jumped, mind falling back to his first thoughts upon awakening.

“Hector lives?”

Achilles released a sharp breath that ended with a growl. “He should not, but for now, I will let him live, if that would make you happy.”

A soft grin split Patroclus’ face, “It would, my love.”


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exams? Don’t know her. Though I have convinced myself writing fan fiction is basically English revision. And TSOA is a modern classic, I think.
> 
> Anyway, here is part two my lovelies. I hope you all have a very merry, and safe, Christmas.
> 
> Warnings: Mentions of injury and death.

  
A week passed and movement returned to Patroclus’ hands. Feeling crept along his arms and soon he could raise them to tug at Achilles, to stroke the plains of his face and dip into the valleys of his muscles when he changed the bandages thick around Patrolus’ chest. At first, Machaon had wanted to do it, as he had when Patroclus had been unconscious.

_Two weeks, Achilles had told him later on._

_It explained, partly, the broken state Achilles had been in when Patroclus awoke._

_“I don’t think he slept a wink the whole time.” Briseis murmured one evening when Achilles had eventually been persuaded to leave Patroclus’ side to check on his men._

But Achilles had been adamant he was now going to be in charge of Patroclus’ recovery. And Patroclus knew him well enough to guess why. He had seen the guilt that flickered across his face when he thought Patroclus was turned away. The look that seemed to permanently mar his expression as he helped Patroclus out of their bed, and gently carried him to take some fresh air or relieve himself. Even now, after two weeks since he awoke, Patroclus could move little below his midriff. The limbs didn’t even feel dead, it was as if they didn’t exist, as if his body stopped where the wound began. The wound that still burnt deep through the bandages. Machaon said, miraculously, his organs were mostly undamaged. The broken bones were slowly, but steadily healing. He could sit up, without leaning too much on Achilles for support. As for the rest, only time could tell.

And Patroclus’ grudge against Achilles, for sacrificing him for his pride? Patroclus had never been good at holding anything against Achilles. Anger, frustration, it didn’t come easily. He didn’t even know how to feel such emotions for Achilles. Briseis didn’t understand. She still glared at him with her dark, Trojan eyes whenever he touched Patroclus. Which was most of the time. Achilles probably wouldn’t understand either. As with most things now, Patroclus found he just didn’t have the energy to be angry. The time they had remaining to them was blessed. With a wound like his, such moments could only have been given by the gods.

One night, as the rest of the camp slept, Achilles took them down to the beach. He wrapped his body up in thick blankets, because even though the summer nights were warm, Patroclus found the cold seeped through his skin in a way it hadn’t before. His arms, grown frailer since the wound, clutched at Achilles’ neck, and he let his head fall back in a laugh as Achilles charged through the white foam cantering up the beach. Throughout, Achilles made sure to hold him so gently, the wound, still healing lazily across his chest and back, barely twinged.

Later, they lay together on the sand, curled on Achilles’ cloak, tossing pitted olives into each other’s mouths. At some point they moved even closer, even though the game’s aim was to shift further apart with each successful shot, and Achilles’ right hand was moving to carefully tangle in his hair. He propped himself up on the other hand and looked down at Patroclus, face cast in the silver light of the moon. Patroclus flushed as those bright eyes, in the night deepened to the green of a forest pool, flicked lazily across his features. A smile tugged at the edges of his mouth and Achilles returned it with the wide grin of a cat. He shifted so his other elbow came down to bracket Patroclus’s chest and then he crouched lower over him, covering his body with his own and fighting away a slight breeze that had fluttered along the beach.

With hands ridged in callouses, yet still so elegant they should not belong to a warrior, Achilles cupped Patroclus’ face, thumbs brushing under his eyes in soft, sweeping motions, the pads as soft as the velvet of a dog’s ear. As he bent closer, Patroclus could smell the soft musk of salt, cedar and something sweet that had accompanied Patroclus throughout his childhood and beyond. His hands reached up to thread fingers through Achilles’ hair and he closed his eyes.

“My son.” Achilles was gone before Patroclus’ eyes had snapped open, cold air rushing up where his body had been just a moment before. Unable to move, Patroclus shivered.

  
Achilles half crouched in front of his love, a knife already loose in his hand. It would be useless against Thetis, Achilles knew, and that’s what terrified him the most. If Thetis wished, she could take Patroclus from him again, and he could do nothing but rage. He gripped the knife tighter and moved to block Patroclus from view when her eyes flicked over him.

“Silly boy, I am not here to take your pet.” Achilles narrowed his eyes. Standing like a jutted tooth against the smooth horizon of the sea, Thetis appeared diminished. Her once towering form now hung, sagged over, the great rolling darkness of her hair hung limply over her shoulders and the eyes that met his across the sand were sunken.

He shifted closer to Patroclus until he could feel his body heat mingle with his own.

“What do you want?”

Once Thetis would have snapped her jaw in anger at his tone, but now only a dark look passed across her features. She didn’t try to move closer.

“Achilles?” Keeping one eye on his mother, Achilles flashed his gaze back towards Patroclus. He had one hand raised, reaching to be pulled up. Achilles scrambled to get behind him and snaked an arm around his back to gently raise him into a sitting position. Then he folded his knees on either side of his beloved and let him lean back against his chest. Patroclus took in a strained breath, and sagged back, already exhausted from such a simple movement. His hand darted across where the wound still lingered. And then he inclined his head at Thetis.

“My lady, you have my thanks.”

Achilles arms tightened around Patroclus’ waist.

“Philtatos, you owe her nothing.”

“It seems your mortal is smarter than he appears,” the words raked through the air like the ocean passing over stones. Her black eyes gazed over their bodies, glinting in satisfaction as Patroclus took another pained breath, “my son, do you truly believe it was the hands of your mortal physicians that saved this boy?”

Achilles’ breath hitched before the full meaning of her words hit him. He brought the body in his arms closer and cherished the feeling of it swelling with each breath stolen from the fates. Without the aid of his mother, this body would be cold and swollen with rot. He buried his face in the soft curls of Patroclus’ head breathing in his scent. In the darkness, images of his body, sagging, lifeless, cold, empty, being brought back from the war, still as vivid as if they happened yesterday, tore through his mind.

The blood, the smell, the stillness. Stillness which had suddenly erupted into life. His hands trailed towards the wound which still dominated Patroclus’ body. His mother was right. No mortal, no matter how great, could have healed that.

“Patroclus was meant to die,” Thetis’ cold voice broke over his thoughts, “it was his death that lead to your own, and thus the fates have been changed.”

Patroclus stilled in his arms, “does that mean Achilles is safe? He will survive the war?”

“Nothing is certain.” Thetis didn’t deign Patroclus with a glance, her eyes still boring into Achilles, “but such an action will require a gift to the gods.”

“Anything, I will give them anything-”

“I know.” Thetis cut through sharply, the bloody slash of her lip curling, “but be prepared. The gods have no rule which says they must be fair.”

On the next roll of the gently turning tide, she was gone, evaporated with the sea foam which cracked against the rocks.

They left the beach. The merriment, which had found them truly for the first time since they reached the shores of Troy, had passed. Achilles kept his arms tight around Patroclus, glowering at the night watch guards, who let them pass without a sound.

Achilles carried him into the dim light of their tent, the heavy warmth a chill in comparison to the beating heat which emanated from his chest. He sat on their bed, Patroclus still cradled in his arms, clutching him as if he was the last gasp of light in a world of darkness. He had yet to speak.

“Achilles.” Patroclus let his voice burn through the silence, the name hanging heavy in the air.

“You knew?” It wasn’t an accusation, but the question left Achilles’ chest in a breathless murmur.

“I guessed. It was only logical, after- after what Hector did.” Achilles tensed at the name, and Patroclus suppressed the guilt blooming in his chest. He didn’t want to see Achilles suffer, to take away the last rock of hope he had been clinging to, that his pride had only lead to Patroclus nearly being killed, rather than taking his life altogether.

He raised his hand to Achilles’ face. “My sweet, I do not blame you.”

Achilles gripped the hand and pressed it to his lips. “You should.” The words were barely audible and Patroclus only knew them through the soft vibrations against his fingertips.

Gently, he drew his hand away and replaced it with his lips.

“It is in the past.” He whispered when they separated, foreheads pressed together so their eyelashes brushed when they blinked. “The moments we have now are precious, there is no time for grudges.”

Achilles blinked, Agamemnon’s name passing wordlessly between them.

The next day Achilles rode out to Troy, leading the myrmidons behind him in a streak of gold. He charged through the Trojan forces, his god given horses grinding men beneath their hooves, his spear, carved by Chiron, finding every one of its marks. Every day he would return covered in blood, stinking of sweat and grime, and sweep Patroclus into his arms to pepper him with kisses.

Patroclus watched the tide of the war turn as the Greeks steadily gained land. Day by day, pain staking metre by pain staking metre, life after life, until they frothed and chaffed at the very gates of Troy. The day before the gates cracked beneath their weight, Achilles held Patroclus’ hand as the bandages were finally removed from his chest, revealing the angry mass of a scar that tore through his body and spread in cracked veins of white and red across his back and stomach. Achilles wrapped him in his arms as Machaon told him he would never walk again, and let their tears mingle as they curled together afterwards on the single bed in their tent.

“I love you. You are worth no less, you are more precious to me than any creature in this land. I love you, Patroclus.” He whispered over and over, lips never leaving Patroclus’ ear.

* * *

After that Troy was taken in only a matter of days, their forces cracked and broken, resources gone and people exhausted.

It was a time for celebration after nearly a decade of war, yet under the command of Achilles, the Phthians barely stayed long enough to take their share of the plunder.

Briseis sat beside Patroclus, keeping him company as the camp was taken down around them. His and Achilles’ hut, which had stood like an immovable beast in the middle of the compound for so many years, had been defeated in minutes by a small group of soldiers. Fabric was saved for bandages, whilst the rest was burnt. She tossed the end bit of a tent pole onto the fire blazing in front of them and wrapped another blanket around Patroclus’ shoulders. They were frailer now. He had always had a leaner frame, grown slimmer in comparison to Achilles who had spent his twenties fighting rather than helping in the medical tent. Machaon had prescribed gentle exercises now he could move without putting too much strain on the wound, but even so, the muscles in his legs were wasting away.

Yet despite all this, despite the fact he could never move unaided again, that even this slight breeze, gentler than the breath of a child, had him shivering under thick blankets, despite the pain Achilles’ pride had driven through him, Patroclus still gazed at him with the tender love he always had.

He met her gaze as she watched him, those warm brown eyes seeking the frustration in her face as easily as if he was scanning a map. A hand slipped out from under the blankets and wrapped around her own. They were cold, and bonier than she remembered.

He opened his mouth to speak and then his eyes flicked away, caught on something behind her. She turned and saw Achilles in the distance striding back and forth, that cursed golden hair flying brilliantly in the wind as he shouted orders at his men. Even now, when he spoke, she heard only that howling battle cry which had taken her home away. From here, it was hard to believe he was only a half-god. Amongst the Myrmidons he stood taller and brighter, like an ingot of gold amongst coal.

Pretty to look at, but utterly useless, she thought bitterly.

But to Patroclus, she knew that ingot was his reason for living.

“If Achilles dies, I will not be far behind.” Those words he had said to her so long ago, yet she knew the sentiment had not changed. And probably never would.

She knew the man must be approaching when Patroclus’ face suddenly lit up, and then Achilles was there, draping himself over his back like some big, muscular, sweaty cloak, and resting his chin on his shoulder. He whispered something in Patroclus’ ear and he laughed. As if sensing Briseis, Achilles met her gaze from behind Patroclus and narrowed those green eyes. The eyes of a god.

Suddenly she wondered, what would have happened had Patroclus really died? Would Achilles have lost his humanity for good?

_Yes_.

A shiver ran through her body. He would have destroyed everything in his path, in his desire for vengeance.

The blue-grey smudge of Phthia’s cliffs were nearly in sight when the god entered Achilles and Patroclus’ cabin. She must have passed invisible through the ship, because the guards stationed outside made no sound at all, no warning before the grey-eyed woman stood in the door.

Something in her face reminded Patroclus of Achilles. That inhuman stillness, the ancient depth of her eyes. The way she carried herself that stood her apart from all men.

He dipped his head, “Athena.”

Achilles made no acknowledgment, but watched her warily from beside Patroclus. Athena had been on the side of the Greeks during the war. It was thanks to her wisdom and guidance that they had been lead to victory. Whatever she wanted in return, Patroclus knew Achilles would give. He watched as the muscles in Achille’s jaw twitched. She only had to ask, and he would give up his life. His hand found Achilles’ and he gripped it.

“For the life of Patroclus, son of Menoetius, the fates have been changed.” Athena’s voice came out deeper than he expected, colder than the distant stars above them and emotionless as the stone of her face.

Achilles gripped his hand tighter, “whatever I can offer, it belongs to the gods.”

The spider thread of a smile cracked Athena’s face. Yet it didn’t denote happiness, or even any semblance of what could be called emotion in human terms. Just like the rest of her, the smile of Athena was merely a facade of humanity.

Though perhaps they should be grateful she came in this form.

“There is nothing you can offer me, Prince of Phthia. Not for the impact it has had on the fates.” Her cold gaze fell on Patroclus and, for a moment, Patroclus felt like he was staring into the depths of the Sun. Then, perhaps indifferent to what she saw in his weak, mortal body, she turned her head up to the ceiling, looking through it to the great cavern of the sky.

“Yet, you owe the gods a great debt now, Prince of Phthia. This is all I ask of you. Remember this gift now, even until your dying days.”

“Your support? Is that all?” Patroclus asked later on when they lay in bed, legs tangled together, his head pressed to Achilles’ chest so not even the finest sliver of air separated their bodies.

Achilles only hummed in response, threading his hand tenderly through the long curls of hair at the nape of his neck. His fingers found that spot behind his ear and he fiddled with it for a moment before speaking, “the fates have changed, who knows what conflicts will arise in the future. Perhaps this battle between men is only the beginning.”

“A war between the gods?”

Patroclus felt Achilles shrug, the muscles of his shoulder brushing against his neck.

“I guess we can only see.”


End file.
